


les amis Collective 4.0

by Ark



Series: Hacker AU [4]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Bloggers - Freeform, M/M, Mild BDSM, Oral Sex, Ponzi Schemes, Revelations, Rooftops, Sex, Social Justice, Strategy Brunch Sunday, sexy sexy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-17
Updated: 2013-04-17
Packaged: 2017-12-08 17:46:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/764199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ark/pseuds/Ark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Get on the bed.” Grantaire still hasn't moved, doesn't move. His body is carved from ivory, wet, as though left out in the rain. The droplets from his hair pattern the hardwood floor.</p><p>“And if I don't?” asks Grantaire.</p><p>“I will put you on it,” says Enjolras.</p><p>“I might get back up again,” Grantaire points out.</p><p>“Not if you are tied down,” says Enjolras.</p>
            </blockquote>





	les amis Collective 4.0

**Author's Note:**

> This would not exist without the encouragement of my [tumblr](http://et-in-arkadia.tumblr.com) loves. You are my sun and stars.

They laze together a long while. Eventually Grantaire props up. “Hey,” he says, “do you have the rest of the day free? We could do something stupidly New York, like take the Staten Island ferry to the terminal and back, or, better yet, ride the F out to Coney Island. It's practically around the corner--”

For a moment Enjolras is lulled by the close warmth of Grantaire's body and the persuasive suggestion, sees them strolling down the boulevard by the ocean. They'd ride the old Cyclone roller coaster and get the famous hotdogs and he'd win some preposterous stuffed animal for Grantaire in a carnival game and they could take in the freakshow, watch men swallow swords and women breathe fire --

But Enjolras can feel the build-up of emails and messages and news and responsibilities growing with an actual pressure along his spine. He makes himself shake his head, banishing images of Grantaire, laughing, jeans rolled up, daring to dip his toes into the cold winter ocean, and how they might find a spot on the sand --

Enjolras says, “I wish it were possible. But I've got a backlog of work I'm gonna get in trouble over if I don't tackle today.”

Grantaire hides the flash of disappointment well enough, and hitches an eyebrow. “You don't seem the type to fall behind.”

“I've been distracted,” says Enjolras. He rolls over on the couch, coming up on top of Grantaire, looking arch. Grantaire looks slightly more appeased, and Enjolras touches lips to the stubble of Grantaire's jaw. “Rain check? I haven't been to Coney Island in years. I'd really like to do today, but I'm swamped.” 

“Ok-ay.” Grantaire sing-songs it, with flair. “But we're doing Coney one day. And I'm only letting you off because you showed me a good time.”

Enjolras mouths at Grantaire's exposed shoulderblade, so temptingly displayed under him. “I liked meeting your friends, and getting to see the show,” he says. “If I didn't say so enough last night, you were all fantastic.”

Grantaire tries to brush it off, hands coming up and fingertips brushing Enjolras' lower back. “You're biased along with distracted,” he demurs. “The band was great. I was okay.”

“Isn't it enough I was impressed?” He asks Grantaire's collarbone next. 

“It counts,” Grantaire allows. His fingers follow their tips and start to dig in at the curve of Enjolras' back. “I'm really glad you liked it. That you were there. And your friends are totally cool. Cooler than you, even.”

“Hey,” says Enjolras, not so much a protest since Grantaire's touch is verging on massage territory, and feels too excellent to interrupt. 

“Way cool,” Grantaire goes on. “I'm pretty sure I'll be seeing more of Courfeyrac, with or without you, man; that guy's the life of the party, isn't he? I bet the thing he went to with Feuilly is still going.” It's early afternoon, but knowing Courfeyrac, it is a distinct possibility. Enjolras doesn't care so long as Courfeyrac gets through his Collective tasklist for the day, and he always does, somehow, so Enjolras doesn't care. 

“Joly I'm positive I'll be seeing,” Grantaire is saying, and gripping, and rubbing, and sometimes scratching, getting at the tight muscles of Enjolras' back but also focusing on his ass. “Have you ever seen anything like that? It was like a movie, the way he and Bossuet met and just connected.” 

The pressure is perfect, not too hard, not too soft, somehow finding all the places where Enjolras aches. Despite daily exercise and stretches combined to combat countless hours spent at a desk, something always hurts from too much time spent typing. Enjolras lets his eyes close, lets himself relax half-sprawled across Grantaire, and enjoy the doubled release of tension before he has to start his day. 

Grantaire says, “Do you believe in love at first sight?” 

“No,” Enjolras says, and feels the romantic in Grantaire stiffen a little underneath him. “But lust, certainly. My experience has been that you can become attracted to someone after the fact, once you've gotten to know them. But I think most of us have had the experience of _wanting_ someone after seeing them once or twice, regardless of what they're really like. Getting to know them can shatter the lust. But _love_? How can that occur via staring?”

“It's been known to happen.” Grantaire sounds circumspect. “Else we wouldn't have so many stories on the topic.”

“Wishful thinking,” says Enjolras. He thinks about the first time he saw Grantaire. Lust at initial look, sure. He'll admit as much. But there was nothing soft about it, nothing floral. No winged cherubs were spotted. He remembers wanting to eat Grantaire alive. Devour him on the spot, in the middle of the Cafe Lafayette. Take him down and open him up immediately, like a present that had been presented to Enjolras. There had been nothing gentle in it.

“Anyway,” Grantaire hastens, changing the subject back, “everyone was chill. I'm happy for Bossuet about Joly -- he could use a good break -- and I've never seen Eponine give anyone her attention for as long Combeferre got it. Dude must really know his music.”

Enjolras snorts. “Don't get him started, ever.”

“So...” Grantaire's fingers trail, and his voice does. “Is he, like, an ex? I think it's totally cool that you guys get along so well. I'm kind of bad at doing that, you know? And it makes me sad, because there's something, like, profoundly tragic in the idea that you lose a person you once shared so much intimacy with, they can just be gone. We never really break up with friends that way, right? But then, from one day to the next, in a relationship--”

Enjolras opens his eyes. Grantaire is speaking fast, building out a monologue, blue gaze fixed on a point on the ceiling. Enjolras opens his mouth. “Combeferre?” 

Grantaire stutters to a stop. Then Enjolras is laughing. “Combeferre is my best friend, but only ever that.” He thinks around his laughter; he'll have to allow that, while absurd, it isn't an absurd sort of conclusion to draw: “I suppose we can seem a little like an old married couple,” he admits. “We were roommates in college until we moved to the city, and he's my -- he's my collaborator, on some freelance projects.” He'd been about to say _second-in-command_ and could not. It's harder than he thought it would be to keep his second life -- his life -- apart from this experiment with Grantaire, and now their worlds are merging further, friends forging ties that might endure in spite of them. 

It's harder than Enjolras thought it would be to think about how Grantaire is spending time with a shell of him, believes Enjolras to be something he is not. Doesn't know what he is. Enjolras has painted himself as upstanding and stable, a good job, easy-going friends, some money in the bank, nothing extravagant, a normal guy like millions of others in Brooklyn. 

What if he were to say to Grantaire, right now even, _A month ago the collective of anarchist hackers I lead saved a hundred lives by leaking plans of an attack by government forces in an African nation whose name you don't need to know, and two days ago, we thwarted a coup in Latin America, and today, I'm planning to vent my frustration about America's ongoing drone warfare initiative and probably risk the attention of the CIA._ What would Grantaire say? What would he do? What would his face look like, the face at current so blissfully fucked-out underneath Enjolras?

It's harder than he thought it would be to think about.

No matter Grantaire's reaction, it's an impossible rock and a hard place. Telling Grantaire the collective's truths would expose him to guilt by association and also make him a too-easy target. There's no way Enjolras can risk the institution he's spent years building, risk the good they'll do in the now and the future, so that he can indulge his own personal needs further. 

Grantaire naked against him on the couch is enough of an indulgence. He can't risk Grantaire, and he can't risk himself on Grantaire's discretion. 

Even if Grantaire were to be supportive, even if he would want to keep their secrets, _discrete_ is not a word that can be put to Grantaire. He seems a very genuine person, and Enjolras is enjoying him more than he'll admit aloud (though he groans, a little, as Grantaire's fingers dig deep), and Grantaire has revealed intriguing depths below his knee-jerk cynicism, that had so put Enjolras off at first. But all it would take is a few too many drinks and a loose tongue, and everything that Enjolras has worked for could crumble.

Grantaire isn't party to the churning wheels in Enjolras' head; he's still talking about something else. He's trying to figure more of Enjolras out from his interaction with his friends -- it's not a bad way to learn about people, but easy to misread from the outside. 

“Huh,” says Grantaire, about Combeferre.

Enjolras isn't laughing anymore. He tries not to sound dismissive, sounds decisive. “Combeferre's like my right arm; I don't know what I'd do without him, but there's never been anything between us. He tends to go for the wounded souls he can help guide to a better path -- types like your Eponine, delicate flowers, damaged, thorny.”

Grantaire's eyebrow goes up, but he has half a smile at that. “I'll pass on the message. If you think Combeferre's really interested, though, I'd tell you to pass on another: I wouldn't hold my breath. Ep's...complicated. She's been through a lot, and she doesn't trust easily; her reasons are more valid than most. You...you remember the Thernardier affair?”

Enjolras has to divert all his energy into not snorting. The whole world remembered the disgraced former head of Jondrette Capital, the investment outfit that had turned out to be an elaborate Ponzi scheme bold enough to make Bernie Madoff blush. 

Les amis had just been starting out when the Thernardier scandal came to light, and had made it their first mission to gleefully expose as much of the corruption as they could. Because of their contributions in gathering evidence, many more of the Jondrette boardroom gang's gross complicity was revealed, and many more men and women went to prison for their crimes. 

“I know what's in the news,” answers Enjolras. He doesn't add that he made the news.

“That's her father,” explains Grantaire, after hesitating over it. Enjolras tries to hide his surprised reaction, difficult when you're naked and lounging atop another person. “Shit,” says Grantaire. “Don't tell me you lost money with Jondrette Capital.”

“No, no,” says Enjolras. “Nothing like that. Go on, I'm listening.”

“It was really weird, to hear her tell it. Really tragic, in a way. I know it might be hard to feel bad for asshole billionaires, but their families can be victims, too. Like, apparently her father's a huge jerk, no surprise there, but when she was young, he was all about giving his family the best in life. They lived in ridiculous luxury on Park Avenue, Ep had like three nannies and went to all the best schools. In New York that starts with your baby play group. Anyway, apparently she never had any idea what was really going on until she got older. Then she didn't know what to do. She couldn't destroy her family and send her father to prison for forever, though if you ask her now -- don't -- she'd say she wishes that she had, that she wishes she'd tried to do something sooner. As soon as her dad was arrested, she turned state's witness. It was important, because her sister refused to testify, and her little brother's great, but he's just a kid. Her testimony was pretty crucial.”

“I remember,” says Enjolras. He'd watched the proceedings closely years ago, and now he shakes his head, thinking about it. The Eponine Thernardier in court had been a coiffed schoolgirl, a polished teenage waif like something out of _Gossip Girl_ , bearing no resemblance whatsoever to the fierce force of nature who had met him with a smile and a threat of castration.

“After the trial she had to disappear,” explains Grantaire. Enjolras, in favor of this sort of story, burrows down to encourage it, and to encourage Grantaire's hands to resume their motion. Thankfully, he does, starting at the base of Enjolras' spine as he talks. “She went from having everything to total ruin and disgrace, if we want to get literary. Pretty much no money left, no one would return her calls, every door closed in her face. 

She decided to go the other way, to get out. She left all of it behind, learned to live without anything, traveled with her backpack and a camping guitar and went anywhere that would have her. A few years later, she got into Occupy and it was like a holy calling for her. She felt like she could finally make some restitution for all the wrongs her father had perpetrated. She was a true believer, man, and she could make you believe.”

“Mmm,” agrees Enjolras. Grantaire's hands smooth into his shoulders, then settle to working the knots on his neck. “Please don't stop,” he says, in general.

“Things are still really fucked up for her. There're a lot of people who are angry about what happened -- I mean, I get it, their lives were trashed when their money vanished, I would be pissed too. But since they can't get at her father in prison, sometimes people will threaten Ep, or even hire someone to scare her. Worse, her father was involved with all kinds of super-sketchy characters, and they have the same idea when it comes to her. Her mother and siblings have police protection, but she won't go in for that.” The pressure increases; it almost hurts, but Enjolras can feel his bunched muscles loosening. “She hates the police, after the stuff we saw at Occupy. That's not gonna happen. But I worry about her. I'd love it if she gave a nice dude like Combeferre a chance; at least _he's_ everything he says he is. She hardly needs someone fucking her over again by pretending he's something that he's not.”

Enjolras doesn't want to cringe, but when he cringes, he tries to make it seem in sympathy: “Hmm?” he says delicately, like he's an attentive listener to other people's intimate concerns. 

“You sure you want to hear this stuff?” At Enjolras' nod, Grantaire keeps rubbing, but says, “What happened to all that work you had to do?”

“Oh, I'm already on the clock,” Enjolras murmurs, putting lips to Grantaire's throat. “I'm billing for human resources. Go on.”

“You're in it for the massage,” Grantaire accuses, but he doesn't seem to mind because, “I give good thumb, I know. Since you're captive to my whims, I'll keep telling you about our merry band's misadventures. Stop me when you regain your work initiative. You'll recall one Marius Pontmercy, lately of your premises?”

“He's quiet, at least,” says Enjolras. Grantaire sweeps fingers through his hair, and all of a sudden cats purring make quite a lot of sense. Enjolras doesn't _purr_ , though. People don't purr.

“Marius joined Occupy pretty early -- first wave. He was bright and eager, liked to volunteer to do stuff and be in the thick of it, really can-do, you know. Wasn't long before he was friends with us -- I -- I told you how were kinda like the vanguard? Yeah, so. Ep had a thing for him, it was sort of funny -- half the camp would have fallen at her feet, and she couldn't get enough of Pontmercy. I think it was because he had this kinda wide-eyed innocence, like, naivete or something, that was pretty rare with us. Most people protesting for social justice are jaded motherfuckers. 

Marius was smart, he could write, he was ready to damn the Man, but he was like a little lost lamb. He had to be told what to do all the time, was always asking for something or another to be explained or justified, was forever quizzing us all. We learned to like him because Ep had a thing. She thought he was 'pure,' and hadn't ever known someone like that. The thing was, he wouldn't give her the time of day, so of course she had to have him. It became this whole obsession. She was seriously in love with the guy. 

The number of times we tried to talk her out of maybe not losing it over _Pontmercy_ , you have no -- anyway. This went on for ages, and then, when we were visiting the camp in Seattle, she took this cop's pepper spray full-on in the face when he was aiming for Marius. After that Marius had a change of heart, and they were forever tragic about each other, and I've never been witness to more sickening displays of public affection in my life.”

“Don't get me wrong,” continues Grantaire, fingers deep in Enjolras hair, “We're not talking about public _sex_ here, such as might occur between two consenting adults on the subway and be mind-blowing, we're talking public snuggles and butterfly kisses. But at least Ep was happy for a while. It was good to see her happy. Then the eviction happened, and we were all messed up about it. Marius took it really hard. He was heading for breakdown territory, it's getting kind of scary, dude's tearing out his hair, having crying jags, the whole nine yards. Then one night he calls us together and makes this whole speech. He confesses that he's been playing us, that he can't go on living a lie, now that he knows what love is -- it was really dramatic. There was a lot of crying, mostly Marius. 

Turns out he's not as wide-eyed as we thought. He's a reporter. _Wants_ to be one, anyway. Worked for one of those blogs where clever college kids with laptops get bylines. It has some silly name -- Scoopfinder, something like that. His editor -- and I'd use the term loosely -- thought it would be a great idea to embed him, let him befriend us, look for the scandals: The Dirty Truth About The Dirty Kids of Occupy, or some such crap. They don't care about disclosures and journalistic ethics; that doesn't get web traffic. But Marius didn't expect to become one of us, to have 'lost his neutrality, despite his passionate devotion to his craft,' and he had decided, he told us, that he was giving up the article, for love and honor and Leon Trotsky and a great many other things. We were...surprised, to say the least.”

Enjolras blinks his way through it. He isn't sure if he wants to give the skinny kid upstairs more or less credit for pursuing his assignment so doggedly, and he isn't sure -- the idea needs time to process -- how much he likes the fact of a wannabe gossip-monger living in his house. The site Grantaire named had a reputation for doing anything to land a headline, and gleefully covered les amis' publicized missions. 

They were not always favorable: A CLICK TOO FAR? They liked to blare. HEROES OR HIGH-TECH BANDITS? His personal least-favorite, THE HACKER HELLION-IN-CHIEF: A recent “story,” following their high-profile leak of U.S. military mercenary contracts, that summarized all that was known or rumored about Enjolras in salacious gasps: “Sources who claim to have met the elusive fugitive commander say he has the face of a Kennedy, the heart of Karl Marx and the soul of Saul Alinsky.” Sources, namely Courfeyrac, were instructed never to talk to the press again.

 _Fugitive_ is technically a relative term. Although several countries and international governing bodies have issued warrants for their arrest or expressed an interest in having a “conversation,” the U.S. has abstained thus far, showing remarkable restraint. 

Recent polls have registered strong public support for les amis' activities, especially the take-down of festering Washington establishment figures and the damages to unscrupulous Big Money interests. They are gaining a folk-hero status that makes Enjolras uncomfortable, but there is no denying the protective benefits. If he is found and hauled off for his “crimes,” it will be the top story on every newspaper on the planet, and the debate will be loud enough to hear in space.

Grantaire is palming a hand back down his neck to get at the knots again. Enjolras thinks he might've tensed up. Remembers what they're discussing. Pulls himself back into the present. “So Marius gave up his chance at the Pulitzer,” he says dryly. “What happened?”

“We were pretty shocked that we'd been sharing everything with this guy who was essentially lying to us daily, you know? People felt betrayed. Most of us forgave him eventually, because he's really not a bad dude. From his perspective, when he went in, he thought he was going to report an eye-opening, ground-breaking expose of Occupy. And then, after he aligned with the cause, he tried to do what he thought was the heroic thing, the self-sacrificing thing, which was to kill the story and confess. That took balls. That's why I hugged him back, when he jumped your banister. I like the guy, and I'm glad to see him alive. But I still wouldn't trust him far as I could throw him. So: not far.”

“Poor Eponine,” says Enjolras, attempting not to dwell on Grantaire's reaction to _a guy essentially lying daily_ , and trying to hurry them past it. “I see what you meant about her trust issues being more valid than most.”

“It's amazing that she goes outside,” says Grantaire, sounding sad, “let alone that she flaunts her freedom the way she does, working behind the counter at too many bars, playing shows under her real name. It's like she wants people to see her face, needs them to know that she's unafraid. I'm in awe of what she does every day. That's why I wanted you to meet her. I'm so glad you guys got along. I hoped you would -- but, yeah. Poor Eponine, only she won't take anyone's pity. When Marius finally stopped confessing that night, she slapped him across the face and left without a word; the next day we heard that she'd gotten on a plane to go help out with the effort in Oakland. Marius was pretty crushed, and there wasn't much left for him to do, so he went to go find himself on the hippie trail in India. You know, some 1960s-era Beatles shit. That's the last we'd heard of him.” Grantaire tilts to look at Enjolras. “And now you have to fix his leaky pipes.”

“No leaks allowed,” says Enjolras, who runs a tight ship of a building. “But if there were I'd move more slowly to fix them, if you wanted.”

“That's terribly romantic,” says Grantaire, laughing low in his belly, and batting exaggerated eyelashes. “But don't do it on our account. Truth is, Ep's still madly in love with Marius, and part of her is waiting for him to come back. And like I said: not a bad dude. I'll probably grab a beer with him, if he ever calls. He means well.”

Enjolras pauses over the information he has, pretty sure it's not his to share, but -- he and Grantaire are _sharing_ , that's for sure, and he's finding it easy, even... _calming_ , to talk interpersonal dynamics with him. Grantaire is an adept observer of people, but less cynical about his friends than he is about the realities of the world, like his friends are the one bright spot he refuses to see tarnished. 

And Enjolras has offered up little enough about himself. This is something to give, at least. “I think -- I've seen -- there's a blond slip of a girl usually with Marius. She has her own key. I'll leave it up to you whether you think that would help Eponine to hear or not.”

“Dammit.” Grantaire exhales, chews his lip. “It'll tear her up, but maybe it's better, in the end. I don't think they ever would have been quite right for each other, and even if she could really forgive him for what he did, I don't think she'd be able to really ever forget, you know? I appreciate you telling me, though I gotta say, man, meeting you has weirdly affected my friend-group. When I get home I've gotta explain to Jehan why his ex-boyfriend apparently has a brand-new boyfriend, and then I gotta take Ep out and get her drunk enough to hear what you just told me. What's the best way to break someone's heart?”

“Quickly,” says Enjolras. 

Grantaire nods, smoothing fingers along his neck. “Yeah, you're right. Doesn't help her not to hear it, and if I don't tell her I ran into Marius, I'm a dead man.” He sighs. “Okay, okay, I've babbled enough, and you're getting heavy. It's been hard to breathe for, like, the last five minutes but in appreciation of your hot body, I have been suffering in silence.”

Enjolras laughs, putting his hands to the leather of the couch to push up, relieving some -- though not all -- of his body's press against Grantaire. “Thank you for the massage,” he says, earnest about it, because honestly, he can't remember the last time his muscles have been less tight; he's absent a knot in his shoulder that has twinged for months. “And for the babble.” 

He levers down again, with a flex of muscle, and gives Grantaire a light kiss -- brush of lips, touch of tongue to tongue, not too much or they won't ever get off the couch -- because he's delayed work for far too long already. It's almost time for les amis' daily debriefing. Despite Enjolras' earlier protests, they've already passed a considerable portion of the day together. 

“It's a mutual appreciation,” says Enjolras, when he pulls away from Grantaire's mouth.

Grantaire swats his ass, light as the kiss. He looks pleased. Pleased looks good on him. They get up, helping each other up, naked in Enjolras' living room. Grantaire arcs into a full-body stretch that resembles artful pornography, then shakes out messy dark curls and makes a face.

“Mind if I grab a shower before I go?” he asks. “I'm pretty grungy, and your water pressure is, like, seven billion times better than mine. Don't worry, I know you've gotta work; I'll be fast, you won't even know I'm here.”

Unlikely. But the request is unreasonable to deny for Enjolras-lite, mild-mannered computer programmer. What project would that Enjolras possibly have that would preclude Grantaire taking a shower? They slept wrapped up in each other, breakfasted together, have shared emotional moments, and recently had enthusiastic, intimate sex, and he's going to show Grantaire the door still smelling of it? It's not like he's running a mission at the moment. All Grantaire will see is Enjolras busy typing on a laptop. Grantaire will be none the wiser. 

“Yeah, sure,” says Enjolras. “There're fresh towels in the hall closet. Second door on the left. Take your time. I'll be working in the bedroom.”

“Sweet deal,” says Grantaire, bending to gather strewn clothes. Enjolras watches his spectacular ass, watches it saunter down the hall, waits until he hears the start of the shower, shakes his head at his life, and gets to work. 

 

* * *

 

 _OK, so_ , says Courfeyrac, off the mass amis channel once reports have been delivered and tasklists locked in. He's made a private line for the New York-based lieutenants, “#partyline.” _Roll call. Who else got laid last night? Who else got laid several times last night?_

No one types for a breath, though Bahorel inserts a stock crying .gif for having been left out of the festivities. Then he looses a stream of condemnation: _Motherfuckers. I know I said not to invite me to stuff while I'm studying to pass the Bar, but amend that to include nights when we're all getting laid. I can't believe I need to spell these things out for you._

 _I did not get laid,_ volunteers Combeferre, diplomatic, but his is the only such response. 

Their silence speaks louder than text.

 _You absolute bastards,_ from Bahorel. _So when is this certain debauchery happening again?_

 _Depends on Enjolras,_ is Courfeyrac's further contribution. _He's the one with the hipster goods hookup._

Enjolras is pressing hard on each key. _I would've thought you made enough friends last night without needing me to set up play-dates, Courfeyrac._

_I meant no offense, noble leader. I only thought to submit my will to yours. Don't want to step on any toes. All I'm saying is if your own personal sexy bohemian should mention another night out with his sexy bohemian friends, you would be a terrible friend not to let us know. You owe it to Bahorel._

_Here, here._ That's Bahorel.

 _We are not talking about this here,_ says Enjolras. The bedroom door is cracked open; in the bathroom down the hall, Grantaire is singing. He can hear only the faintest lilt of it.

Official meeting-time is over, though, and Enjolras doesn't hold as much sway in Courfeyrac's #partyline. The topic doesn't change.

 _It was a very nice night,_ agrees Joly, and if Arial font could look dreamy, his sentence does. _I'm seeing Bossuet again today, in fact. After work. It's free admission and classical music night at the Morgan Library. I'm in love._

_What the fuck,_ from Bahorel. _I miss one night out and the drunk texts from Joly about getting engaged turn out not to be a joke, Enjolras now runs with a posse of pretty PBR-drinkers who might potentially want to sleep with me, and everyone's having sex except Combeferre._

 _That's not an inaccurate summation,_ Combeferre replies. 

_What. The. Fuck._

_If no one has any other business,_ Enjolras starts.

Luckily, Combeferre does, launching into re-checking the plan for the next day's mission. They'll be trying out a new tactic, with the New York amis conducting the others live from Strategy Brunch Sunday, testing to see if it would be advantageous to create a real-time war room of sorts. 

They are all extremely skilled at communicating via keyboard, text, phone and voice chat, but Combeferre had the idea that especially sensitive plans might benefit from face-to-face collaboration. He thought they'd be able to react more quickly together, and Enjolras better able to address and assign problems as they arose. He watches the steady scroll of Combeferre's logic, grateful for the change in subject.

The shower goes off, and a few minutes after Grantaire pads into the bedroom on bare feet. He still has his clothes bunched up in a bundle under his arm. A blue-and-white striped towel is slung low around his waist, and his wet hair is black as paint and dripping. Beads of water are scattered across his shoulders, his chest; his eyes, when they flick to settle on Enjolras at his desk, are water-colored. 

He looks apologetic, putting a finger to his lips to indicate silence, and pointing to where he'd left his bag in the corner the night before. Tossed it, actually, but that's neither here nor there.

“Don't worry,” says Enjolras, making himself turn back around and focus on the screen. “My meeting's wrapping up. You're good.”

“It's totally crazy what people can do from home these days, with the computing machines and the other whatchamacallits,” says Grantaire, trilling the last in a granparently sort of voice, then flashing Enjolras a grin. “I shouldn't tease, though. I'm jealous. Maybe I should let you show me how to actually work one of those things. I mean, it's kind of bad to be my age and be bad at Facebook. And Jehan gets on my case sometimes, says I'd get more commissions if I had a proper portfolio and stuff online.”

Enjolras types something about winding up the #partyline party, one eye on Grantaire pacing about his bedroom in the striped towel. “That would be easy to set up,” he says. “And I'd be happy to school your sorry Luddite self.” Both eyes are on Grantaire now. “Design's a very lucrative field. It's not a bad thing to investigate. You wouldn't have to do the work you're doing now to get by if you get your name out there.” 

He hasn't even seen Grantaire's creations yet, but the advice emerges nonetheless. And he knows enough people in the industry through his “legitimate” freelance operations, has enough strings to pull, that it occurs to him it would be frightfully easy to get Grantaire a gig. Whether or not he'd take something corporate is another question.

“I like the things I do to get by,” says Grantaire, softly, not defensive. He shrugs. “And if I stopped tending bar and catering, there's no way I'd get so many free drinks. But I'll take you up on the computer lesson. We'll probably have to go back to touch-typing. I used to cheat, when they tried to teach us in school. I'd always peek. So now I suck at it. Such are the follies of youth.” He dumps the bundle of clothes on the low table by the door, then reaches for the t-shirt. 

Enjolras has made an over-hasty goodbye and closed out of the meeting. He keeps his eyes on the screen, though, like he's still focused, when he says it: “Put that down and get on the bed.”

This takes Grantaire a moment. “Sorry?”

“I think you heard me,” says Enjolras. He swivels the desk chair. Then he trains his gaze directly on Grantaire. “The bed. Get on it.”

Grantaire's echoing little smile is delicious, and defiant. “Tell me why I should. I thought you were busy.”

“I am,” says Enjolras. “You have no idea what you look like, do you? I'm sure others have told you. Do you need to hear it again? You cannot expect me to watch you move around, looking like that, in that fucking towel, without expecting me to do something about it.”

“I may have been hoping,” says Grantaire, sly, “or maybe testing.”

“Get on the bed.” Grantaire still hasn't moved, doesn't move. His body is carved from ivory, wet, as though left out in the rain. The droplets from his hair pattern the hardwood floor.

“And if I don't?” asks Grantaire.

“I will put you on it,” says Enjolras.

“I might get back up again,” Grantaire points out.

“Not if you are tied down,” says Enjolras. 

And Grantaire makes a sound, frees it before he can stop it, a noise that is _acquiescence_ , and Enjolras moves from the desk chair. He moves so quickly that later he won't be able to account for it: all is a blur of motion, and then he's crushing Grantaire up against the wall, hands on his ass with the towel in between. The kiss is terrific, both definitions of the word: 1. Of great amount and intensity. 2. Extremely good; excellent.

Then Enjolras lets him go and steps back. “I won't repeat myself again,” he says. 

Grantaire takes a moment to breathe and regain his footing from where he had been bent back to the wall. Then, with his eyes on Enjolras, he moves over to the bed, and climbs up, shifting to the middle. The towel slides but holds fast, clinging to his hipbones. He puts his elbows back and reclines half-propped up, and he crosses his legs at the ankle. The pose is too casual to match their conversation. 

Enjolras tries for equally casual. He strolls to the dresser, sliding open the top drawer. He draws out several coiled silk ties, in russet and gold and black, thumbing the fine fabric as he shakes them out with Grantaire watching. “This one?” he asks. “Or this? Or this?”

Grantaire's tongue darts out, flash of pink over red lips. “How're your knots?” is his reply.

“Boy Scout,” says Enjolras. “Eagle rank. I earned three badges that say once you're tied to my bed, Grantaire, you won't be going anywhere.”

“I'm not quite dried off yet,” says Grantaire. “I'm still slippery. I might get away.”

“No.” He's about to choose the black silk, which will be stark on Grantaire's pale skin, when he catches sight of Grantaire's scarf bunched in with his discarded clothes on the table. It's long rather than wide, and the green wool is tightly knit. It might take the strain. Might even be worth sacrificing, for the sight it conjures in Enjolras' head. He puts down the ties and fishes the scarf free. “You will not.”

On the bed, in the striped towel that needs to be gone, Grantaire opens his mouth. Then he closes it. Then Enjolras is on the bed, belting his hips. He has the scarf in one hand and the other has already seized Grantaire's wrist. 

Grantaire doesn't make it easy for him. His eyes spark, and he tries to jerk away, then stays struggling, just enough to keep Enjolras unbalanced, to force him to ride his roiling body and pin down his hand. 

The other hand is much harder to catch, keeps sneakily eluding him, and Enjolras has to use all of his weight and years of studying personal combat to keep Grantaire from flipping him and coming out on top. Grantaire's making him earn his submission, and they wrestle with it, sweating. Finally Enjolras has both of Grantaire's hands dragged up over his head and pressed hard to the mattress, and he's pressed hard against Grantaire, and both of them are hard. 

Grantaire tests his strength, every limb pushing back; but when there's no where else to go and Enjolras doesn't give an inch he lets himself go limp. His gaze stays defiant. Enjolras moves at once to tie one end of the scarf around Grantaire's wrists, keeping them pinned together, and tying an alpine butterfly only a little too tight. Grantaire hisses as he pulls the knot closed. He threads the other end through a loop in the carved headboard. He yanks on the scarf, straining Grantaire's arms, so that he is made to slide further up the bed. Enjolras leaves enough space for Grantaire's fingers to grip at the wood, then binds the loose end of the scarf back around his wrists, securing with a tautline hitch.

The knots are tested: Grantaire's body twists underneath him, and the muscles of his arms stand out; but as with the earlier struggle, he finds no escape. Enjolras leans back to take in the sight: the green wool keeping Grantaire bound, Grantaire's milkpale skin and the fine, honed lines of his body, his feet that still kick a little in half-hearted protest. His erection, tempting and obvious beneath the blue and white towel. His eyes, a bolder blue that won't give up challenging Enjolras, even thus caught.

“You win this round,” Grantaire concedes, still panting from their clash. The deep breathing does good things for his chest, and Enjolras is distracted, a moment, in observing what he has brought about.

Then Enjolras says, “Yes. I win.” Then he says, “I'm trying to decide what to do with the prize.”

“Big plans?” asks Grantaire, at pains to sound unconcerned.

“Two options, as I see it,” says Enjolras, no longer content to look but not touch, and starting to touch, open palm to Grantaire's flat abdomen and the other hand reaching to brush a nipple. Grantaire shudders, painfully responsive with his body so affixed. “One, I punish you for disobeying a direct command, and continued acts of defiance, by keeping you tied here, taking you in hand, and showing you proper discipline; and I won't let you come, no matter how many times I bring you close to it, I never will, not until I am satisfied as to your rehabilitation.” 

He rolls Grantaire's nipple between his fingers, done with teasing. Grantaire's face is a fantastic canvas of varied colors, flushing rose-red, then scarlet, and the tips of his ears are pink. His wet hair is very dark, and he smells of Enjolras' apple shampoo. He starts to speak, then decides against it, at Enjolras' raised hand.

“Two,” says Enjolras, showing that number of fingers, “I open you up with just a little lube, just enough, and two fingers _maybe_ , if you are exceptionally good when I fuck your mouth, if you've earned two fingers by then. Then I fuck you raw, ride you so hard that you'll scream when you're not moaning.” He shifts his straddle atop Grantaire, suggesting it with his hips.

“Both,” breathes Grantaire. His eyes are round as coins. “Both are good.”

Enjolras tweaks the nipple, hard, then bends to swipe his tongue across the sensitized flesh, his actions quick and sure, and the muscles of Grantaire's bound arms twitch and tremble. “What was that? It sounded like impertinence.”

“Both,” Grantaire says again, this time a whisper. He closes his eyes, lets eyelashes flutter to curve black against his cheek. “Please.”

The total submission now, the abject invitation, Grantaire a straining arc with wrists held together and tied to his bed, is too much, is exactly correct. The sense of heightened, constant want when Grantaire is around, this new need to take and claim, must be obeyed as much as he would have Grantaire obey. 

Every encounter with Grantaire has tested Enjolras' self-control and found it lacking. Snapping. Snaps like it does now, when he answers by moving to crouch over Grantaire, gripping the headboard for balance, and pushing his cock into Grantaire's mouth.

Grantaire opens to take him, pushing up with his shoulders from the bed; the angle is difficult and delicious, as his arms won't give much space to maneuver. It's slower going than usual, but that gives Enjolras the chance to appreciate how Grantaire's lips wrap around him, the swirl of his tongue on the underside of his cock, the hot wet suction that increases as he eases in. Much slower than usual, and maybe Enjolras is drawing this out, can't stop staring down at the glide of his cock and how Grantaire swallows him, and Grantaire is being very obedient, now. 

So obedient, does so well, in fact, that by the time Enjolras is fucking his mouth as promised, fast and relentless, snaps of his hips, one hand fisted and tugging Grantaire's damp hair, the other on the back of his neck, keeping him up as he thrusts in, he decides Grantaire has earned back some standing in the matter. 

He'll get two fingers now before Enjolras fucks him, Enjolras tells him, since he has done well; but he has not forgotten the promise to bring Grantaire to the edge and leave him there. It's only fair, really, says Enjolras, pulling at Grantaire's hair, half-surprised to be saying so aloud: only fair, since Enjolras is also resisting for the greater good, since he could come halfway down Grantaire's throat right now, or pull out to come all over his face and tied-down wrists, come hot and wet and just _mark_ Grantaire-- 

Grantaire's cheeks are hollowed, his jaw dropped of necessity, and he cannot speak, but he gives a sort of hum, if hums can be desperate, and the sound vibrates straight from Enjolras' cock to his brain and then he has to pull out, has to, or his speech will become prophecy. He lets Grantaire's head fall back against the pillow, and Grantaire lies still, breathing quickly, Adam's apple bobbing as he tries to find equilibrium. 

Enjolras doesn't give him the opportunity, moving down his body, stripping away the offending towel with one decisive tug, throwing it free from the bed and out of sight. He climbs between Grantaire's thighs and guides them apart. Grantaire is hard and leaking and Enjolras takes him in hand, as promised, but strokes him gently, lazily, without friction. Grantaire thrusts, helpless, his head digging into the pillow, his tied hands fists.

“Please,” from Grantaire.

It's one of Enjolras' preferred words from him. Good to hear Grantaire focused, unsnarking. “Please, what?”

“I want...” But he falters, unsure. “That was...”

“'Was' is past tense. What do you think I'm going to do to you now?”

“Tell me.” It's a plea.

“Before I fuck you,” says Enjolras, “I need to be entirely sure you've learned your lesson.”

“And if I haven't?”

Enjolras pushes Grantaire's knees up with one hand, baring the exquisite curve of his ass. He smacks one cheek with fingers, no palm, but it's sharp enough to catch Grantaire's breath. 

The gasp is a distraction, though, because Grantaire takes the next second in an attempt to break loose. He's managed to stretch the yarn around one wrist, and he yanks his hand free now, tries to twist sideways and away, mischief in his eyes and mirth on his lips. 

He doesn't get far, because one hand is still tied and Enjolras is on him at once, hauling him back, both eyebrows up. “I would have been kinder to impertinence than attempted escape,” he says, a warning.

“I know,” says Grantaire. 

Fuck. Enjolras makes himself ignore the look on Grantaire's face, the mix of supplication and rebellion and anticipation, entirely too enticing, tempting him to just end it there, to _seize_ , bury himself in Grantaire like he said he would. But not before --

Discipline. He'd promised discipline. It might be a game, but if Grantaire wanted to break the rules on purpose, then he would reap the results. “Turn over,” says Enjolras. His tone says _I won't repeat myself again_ so that he doesn't have to. 

Grantaire does, bright flash of his eyes before they disappear. One hand is still circled by the sea-green scarf; the other reaches to grasp the headboard.

Enjolras starts with three strikes to each cheek, but when Grantaire _keens_ , he increases his momentum, and would have not been able to remember the number, save--

“Keep count,” he tells Grantaire. 

The red outline of his handprint on Grantaire's ass is shockingly bold on the pale skin. He likes the look of it there, like a brand, more than he will ever tell.

So Grantaire does, face pressed into the pillow. “Seven,” he gasps. “Eight--”

Soon enough, “T-twelve, I -- _Thirteen_ \-- Enjolras, fuck--”

“Seven -- seventeen. Oh, God. Please, I--”

His hand comes down firm on the firm skin. “You'll think on your actions every time you sit down, Grantaire,” he says. “You'll reflect on your lack of self-restraint, even while restrained. You'll remember that I had to punish you.” 

“Fuck--”

“ _Count_ \--” Punctuated.

“Twenty--”

“Better.” Enjolras slides a hand under Grantaire's trembling body and fists his cock. Then he starts to jerk him in time with the slaps, which land with greater surety, now that he knows the spots that make Grantaire's legs kick. 

There'd been a guy in college for a little while who'd been into this, who'd shown him this, and though it was long ago Enjolras hasn't forgotten, or forgotten how much he liked it. Likes it now. Everything is on the table with Grantaire, everything clicks when they're in bed, nothing seems forbidden or too much; they just _do_ , and it's with a lack of caution that frightens and electrifies Enjolras. He hardly recognizes himself; he's never been more himself.

“Tw—twenty-three,” whispers Grantaire. His voice is ragged.

“Get to twenty-nine Mississippi,” murmurs Enjolras, “And I'll fuck you.” 

Halfway there: “--is--is--issippi--God, Jesus God in heaven --”

Grantaire speaks numbers, pleading, nearly unintelligible. Somehow they arrive, both of them shaking. “Excellent,” says Enjolras, like he isn't. 

He lets go of Grantaire's cock and admires the marked flush he's brought to Grantaire's skin, the places where his hand landed hardest. He leans across Grantaire to get the lube from the bedside table. Grantaire is shiny with sweat and his breathing is uneven. “One might even say redeeming. I think I'll let you choose how I fuck you, as a reward for good behavior.” 

Grantaire's breath shudders out, but he answers promptly enough. “Like this.” He moves his hips against the bed, just a little. He's still face-down. “Let's stay like this.”

It's the deepest position that Enjolras knows. Once he's in there'll be nothing for it but to drive inward and down, and he said he'd be rough. He meant it. He says, “It'll be deep. I won't be gentle.”

“You promised,” agrees Grantaire.

This time it's Enjolras who has to steady his breathing. He isn't sure he sounds steady. “Your knees. On your knees.”

Grantaire complies, crossing his arms and resting his head against them. His back is an ascending slope. Enjolras runs a hand along it. He uses two fingers, and just enough lube, like he _promised._ Grantaire is begging for them in between choked silences. 

Enjolras leans over him, mouthing at Grantaire's neck, where it's salty with sweat. He replaces his fingers with his cock. His first instinct is to thrust all the way at once, to wonder at the sounds Grantaire would make, but he holds on to a semblance of discipline and grits his teeth and eases in slow. 

It's worth it because Grantaire is so fucking tight, impossibly tight, it's only been the barest of preparations to bring them together, and the sounds he's making now are more than enough. Enjolras keeps one hand on Grantaire's hip and slides the other one over his ass, the too-sensitive skin there, so that Grantaire hisses over his moan. 

“So _tight_ ,” Enjolras tells his throat, before he bites it.

Grantaire rides against him, trying for friction. “I need you to--”

“I know.” He pulls up, and this time when he thrusts he takes care to hit just right, then again, and again, because of the way it makes Grantaire toss his head. Grantaire's the one who lowers them, straightening his legs beneath Enjolras until he's lying flat against the bed. For a while Enjolras kneels, driving down into Grantaire at the right angle, incapable of calculating anything save that and the perfect circumference of Grantaire, who lifts his hips and pushes his ass back and cries out to have him. Everything seems enhanced, heightened, sensations crazily sensitized, and Enjolras' control, already precarious, starts to slip. 

He moves down and over Grantaire, covering him up; all of their limbs align. It's the deepest he's ever been. It's where he needs to be, what Grantaire had needed.

“Ah, Christ,” confirms Grantaire.

Enjolras starts to fuck him in earnest. He never breaks his word. His hand curls around Grantaire's wrist, where the scarf is tied. 

They're quieter than usual about it, at first. It's hard to speak. Words are difficult. But it occurs to Enjolras, fucking Grantaire, that this is the place where he can be the most honest. This is where they're proven to work. In bed with Grantaire he can be himself, and not worry about the life and lives in the computer on the desk. He wants Grantaire, and is wanted. Like this, nothing else can possibly matter, not while they're like this.

So Enjolras lets himself be honest here, where he can't do so elsewhere. He gathers up words, thoughts, truths, and gives them to Grantaire. “I can't handle how much I need to fuck you,” says Enjolras, even as he's doing so, “I don't know what you've done to me.” He can be honest now. He's honest. “This wasn't supposed to happen.”

“What happened?” asks Grantaire. “Tell me.” A pause, while Enjolras quickens their pace. “God, _fuck_ me. _Yes_. But also tell me.”

“Wanting you like this,” Enjolras hears himself say. “Thinking about this even when you're not here.” He doesn't know how to say the rest of it, that it isn't just the sex. That he thinks about other things too, like the way Grantaire cooked breakfast in his kitchen, or the way his fingers crooked around a cigarette. The way that he'd stared back at Enjolras at the Cafe Lafayette. The way he smiled and smelled, how he brushed his hair away when it fell across his blue eyes--

It's too much. It's too much, it's too dangerous, the things he's thinking. They can't be said. He closes his mouth again, snaps it shut, refocuses on fucking. He'd sworn he'd make Grantaire scream with it. He needs to know if he can. He sets out to try.

He can.

He does.

When they come it's almost secondary. What matters is the way they got there. The build of it, their give and take, the rhythm they always uncover. It's too good. It shouldn't be this good. He doesn't know how he'll give it up, when the time comes for that.

And though that's the last thought Enjolras should be thinking when he comes, held inside Grantaire, with Grantaire so close behind him, the sound of their names, mutually spoken, in fucking harmony --

\-- though that's the last thing he should be thinking, that's what he's thinking, coming: he doesn't know how he's supposed to not have this, to go back from this. He thinks, for the first time in -- for the first time, he thinks about what it would be like to have a simple life. To have this, Grantaire in his arms, in his bed, Grantaire fit against him at night to fall asleep. To be nothing more this, have no secrets save the ones they forged between them. He can taste it, the same way he turns Grantaire's head, to catch and taste his mouth. He lets himself have the idea of it, for the space that they lie together.

Afterward, Grantaire yawns his way into a nap while Enjolras goes back to work. He sits with the computer in his lap so that he can face the bed. When Grantaire wakes up, he reads for a long time propped up on one arm, leafing through Enjolras' bedside copy of _The New Yorker_. His hand is still tethered by his scarf and Enjolras' knot. He wears it like a bracelet. 

He stays tied up until it's time for him to catch the train to his bar shift. They don't say very much, but the quiet is easy and unstrained. Enjolras recognizes the tenor of it: contentment, no more nor less. Nothing needs to be changed or adjusted. They just are. 

Enjolras is smiling too much. It's unlike him. He hides it behind the laptop.

“Ugh,” pronounces Grantaire, as the clock ticks on. He goes into a languorous stretch that gives Enjolras too many ideas. “I don't really want to go in. There are nights when I love my job, and nights when I'd rather stayed tied up than tend bar.”

“Come back after,” suggests Enjolras. As soon as he says it he realizes how much he wants Grantaire to do so. 

“Yeah?” Grantaire grins, letting his eyebrow go up. “Two nights in a row? Isn't that breaking some sort of dating rule?”

“I don't like rules very much,” says Enjolras, telling the truth, “Or societal expectations, or social ones. But I'd like to have you back here, later.”

“Okay,” says Grantaire. “Sure. It'll be super-late, though. My shift's not over until 3, and then I gotta help close up and do the 3a.m. waiting-for-the-subway thing. You'll be sleeping. I don't want to--” 

“Just call,” says Enjolras. “I'm a light sleeper. I'll wake up. I don't mind.”

“Cool,” says Grantaire.

“Cool,” says Enjolras. He needs to stop smiling. 

But he doesn't. He can't. Because Grantaire says, “A little help here, Boy Scout?” as he tries at last to loose his wrist. Enjolras takes a while in freeing him. He leaves the scarf tied to the bed. He watches Grantaire dress, chattering. He walks him down the hall. He kisses him goodbye. His brain is whirling a mile a minute behind these activities, but outwardly he's functioning.

“This was better than going to Coney,” says Grantaire. “Though we're totally still going.” 

“I'm glad you didn't leave,” Enjolras agrees. “I'll see you later?”

“Bright and early,” says Grantaire. “You won't be happy about it, when I call to wake you up.”

“Try me,” says Enjolras. And he must sound convincing, because Grantaire looks convinced enough, and lets himself be gently pushed out the door, before Enjolras decides to keep him.

 

* * *

 

The phone makes an incessant, terrible chime. It's a wretched, hateful sort of noise, piercing a restless sleep. Enjolras grabs for it, nearly too late; he picks up on the last ring.

“Sorry,” he hears. “I told you this would suck?”

For a moment he's muddle-brained, confused, blinking. Then he remembers. He's surprised by the flood of heat that comes with memory. “Grantaire. Are you here?”

“There and back again,” says Grantaire.

Enjolras throws off the covers and staggers down the hall after stumbling into boxers. By the time he's at the door he's a shade more human, even rakes a hand through his disheveled bed-hair. He pulls open the door, the gate. Grantaire is a step or two away, looking hesitant, so Enjolras pulls him in, too.

“Hey,” says Grantaire. “Wasn't sure if this was still a good idea. Thought you might've changed your mind by now. Sun's almost up.”

“Still a good idea,” says Enjolras. “C'mon.” 

They go back to the bedroom. Grantaire shucks his jeans, strips off his T-shirt, and executes a sort of face-first dive into the pillow on his side of the bed. He's slept on the same side twice. Tonight will be the third.

It should be strange, inviting him and having him come back. It should be fucking bizarre that Grantaire has a side of the bed. It should be weird that he's here to do no more than sleep next to Enjolras, is half-asleep already, smelling of spilled whiskey. It should worry Enjolras that he'd found it hard to close his eyes earlier in the night, wondering if Grantaire would return.

It will, he decides. Some other time. Tonight it's simple.

Enjolras climbs in beside him. He pulls up the covers. He moves over, and slips an arm around Grantaire. Grantaire makes a sound that sounds happy. They sleep. 

 

* * *

 

Strategy Brunch Sunday is a home-run hit out of the park. Combeferre has been planning the drills they run through for the better part of a month: duplicates of scenarios that have tripped them up in the past, simulations of future missions, with a hundred unforeseen wrenches thrown into the mix 

It's the thrill of the hack with none of the real-time danger. They undertake each faux-mission seriously, but everyone's having too much fun being on the attack together. There's a lot of laughter, and griping from the amis who are scattered world-wide at not getting to be present. They should've done this a long time ago. 

They sit at Combeferre's long dining room table (Combeferre being the only twenty-something Enjolras knows in New York City to a have table large enough to seat them all, let alone a dining room), which has been piled high with the promised platters of bagels. Plates of sliced tomatoes, lox and cream-cheese abound, and there's enough boxes of takeaway coffee to fuel a small army, or the five of them. 

Every drill is undertaken in record time, and it isn't long before they're rather flush with their own brilliance. Combeferre was right; being able to hash out solutions in real time proves invaluable, and they're able to bounce ideas and changes in plan even faster than typing will allow (even Enjolras' typing). By the end of the afternoon, they've made a pledge to repeat the sessions twice a month, and some of the international amis are rallying for a summit.

“Whoa,” says Joly, their lone tea drinker, sitting back with his cup. “I feel like we just leveled up.”

Courfeyrac threads fingers together and cracks his knuckles with exaggerated enthusiasm. “Am I awesome, or am I awesome? Did you _see_ the way I took down that evil botnet?”

“It was well done,” affirms Combeferre, still entering observations into the shared spreadsheet. “Two minutes faster than previously recorded.”

“Now you just gotta repeat that when the pressure's actually on,” Bahorel tells Courfeyrac, buttering a sesame bagel, “and not buckle like you did last month with the North Korean incident that shall go unnamed.”

Courfeyrac, conveniently close, jabs an elbow. “You just named it, asshole.”

“I call the shots like I see--”

“Children, children,” says Joly soothingly, before Enjolras has to reach across the table to bodily break them apart. “Can't we all just get along? We kicked some major ass today.”

“We did kick ass,” Bahorel allows.

“We did,” says Courfeyrac, mollified.

“We have Combeferre to thank,” says Enjolras, clapping him on the shoulder. Next to him, Combeferre keeps typing, but he smiles below his glasses. The success of it is infectious, and the credit well-earned. They raise their coffee cups in a toast to Combeferre and Strategy Brunch Sunday. 

Courfeyrac gets the whiskey out of the liquor cabinet (Combeferre nods at the query, absently, typing) and makes his coffee Irish. Bahorel joins him, and before long they're gossiping like the schoolchildren Joly had addressed them as, all jostling egos forgotten.

Enjolras shakes his head. He turns to say something to Joly, but Joly has reclaimed his phone (they'd all left them in the middle of the table at the start, since Combeferre had a theory they could be dangerously distracting). Enjolras sees why, as Joly is staring and beaming and thumbing at the screen like it is a living, treasured thing. 

“How's loverboy?” Courfeyrac wants to know, breaking off from mission gossip to dig for more. 

Enjolras is glad that Courfeyrac is staring at Joly, that the knowing, ear-to-ear grin is for Joly, that it's Joly he kicks under the table. If he'd asked Enjolras, Enjolras would have had to scowl at him. But something twists in Enjolras, an odd sensation he recognizes as jealousy, when Joly gets to grin back, and reply easily, looking blissful.

“He's so, so good,” Joly answers, then blushes just a touch at the set-up. “We've been together every day since we met, and on the phone when we're apart. Actually, are we almost done here? This has been great, guys, but I have a hockey game to get to. It's not usually my --” he hoists his tea-cup -- “But Bossuet got free tickets from a friend.”

“Holy shit,” says Bahorel, leaning over to clink his glass with Joly's. “It must be love. I never thought I'd see you willingly take to blood sports.”

Joly doesn't deny it. He starts bustling into his coat, still blushing. Combeferre stops typing long enough to see him out with a hug. The others loiter a while longer, loudly recounting the glories of the day, but eventually decide to stop draining Combeferre's best whiskey and decamp to the bar down the street. Enjolras turns down the invitation to join, staying to help clean up as per usual.

Combeferre resumes crunching data as Enjolras treks back and forth from the dining room to the kitchen, collecting dirty plates. “Don't worry about it, really,” he says, eyes on-screen. “Just leave them in the sink. If you go now you'll still have a quarter of a weekend to enjoy.”

Enjolras raises his eyebrows as he liberates the leftover cream-cheese and vegetables for storage in the fridge. “No other plans but this,” he says. 

He's expected an evening of running over the stats with Combeferre, going through the highlights and slip-ups with a fine-toothed comb and talking initiatives and goals for the week. It's what they always do, post-Strategy Brunch Sunday, and this one has been more watershed than most. 

And it's true: he's plan-less. Grantaire is working late again, and their last communication was early in the morning, a text with no text, just a picture Grantaire snapped on the street of a little dog in a yellow raincoat walking with its owner in a matching coat. 

“Oh,” says Combeferre, fingers flying. “Okay. Thanks, then.”

“I figure I owe you a balance of at least a thousand clean dishes from college,” Enjolras says, starting to cart off the cups. “Gotta even out my dish-washing karma.” 

Combeferre laughs a little at that. “You're so clean, no one ever believed me when I said how averse you were to dishes.”

“Everyone's got their something,” says Enjolras. “Explain to me why you hate taking out the trash. It's the easiest of the household chores.”

“I don't _hate_ it,” Combeferre replies, pushing glasses up the bridge of his nose with a finger, but still typing one-handed. “I just forget it's there until reminded.” It's a conversation they've had since freshman year of college, since by some grace of the Residential Life office they'd been paired together as roommates and never looked back. 

“What do you do now that I'm not here to get on your case about the garbage?” He's wondered, a time or two.

“Set reminders,” says Combeferre, “or am reminded by overflowing trashcans. Do you remember the time at Quail house when I left six bags out on the porch, and that raccoon family moved into the backyard as a result?”

“I'll never forget,” Enjolras says. Quail house was junior year, an off-campus run-down abode so nicknamed for its splotchy, mottled paint job that resembled the bird's eggs. They'd taken a shared room there for the cheap rent and the privacy, since the rest of the rooms were occupied by party-bro frat dudes, harmless, uninterested in their computer projects. If they'd stayed around the other comp sci majors, there would've been too much prying into their plans, the initial groundwork for les amis they'd begun to lay down. “The guys had a bonfire party, but s'mores ended before they could start because the raccoons stole all the marshmallows.”

“The party still spent half an hour looking,” Combeferre recalls, shaking his head. “No one believed me when I said _Procyon lotor_ have extraordinarily dextrous front paws -- hands, I think I said for their benefit -- and are more than capable of ascending a picnic table and removing the marshmallows from amidst the beer.”

“Crafty scavenging bastards,” Enjolras agrees. “Hey, I was on your side. I'm always on your side, when you're not disagreeing with me. And when you are, I'm secretly worried about how soon I'm going to be proven wrong.”

“Secret's out,” chuckles Combeferre. At last he tilts the screen down and scrubs a hand across his brow. Enjolras, finished clearing the table, slides into the closest chair. 

“I miss it, sometimes,” Enjolras admits.

“Quail house?” from Combeferre. “I'm quite sure by now the upstairs bathtub has crashed through into the living room. We used to take predictions on that, years ago.”

“College,” says Enjolras. “Everything seemed more...straightforward then. Easy rules to live by.”

“You're looking back with rose-tinted lenses,” Combeferre says, in his careful, clear-sighted way. “You hate rules. You hated university culture. 'Privilege and puking,' wasn't that what you used to say? You disdained most of our professors. You rightly pointed out that most of the classwork was already outdated before we turned it in. You couldn't wait to get out and start making a real difference.” He waves a hand to encompass the humming laptop. “To be doing this. Doing what we're doing.” 

Enjolras pulls a pretend-offended face. “You don't know me,” he gripes, meaning the opposite. 

“I know few things better,” says Combeferre. He snaps the laptop all the way closed, indicating that official amis business is at pause for the time being. “You want to tell me what's brought on this false nostalgia?”

Enjolras occupies himself in sweeping errant poppy seeds and bits of dried onion from the table into his hand, and from there into a napkin. He doesn't say anything, isn't quite sure what he wants to say or how to say it, which of course speaks volumes to Combeferre. 

“If one might extrapolate,” says Combeferre, delicate, “One might arrive at the conclusion of Grantaire. You like him,” he continues, never one to skirt a subject, “more than you thought you would.”

“I didn't think I would like him at all,” says Enjolras, since now they're talking about it. “I thought if we at least got along, I might get a hook-up from it, which isn't...unhealthy. Like, I get that I needed to get outside and socialize more. Accomplished. But it was supposed to be this one-time thing, you know?”

“It's not that it's continuing that bothers you,” says Combeferre, cutting to the heart of it. “It's that you can't be who you are, not fully. And you hate lies almost as much as you hate rules.”

Enjolras exhales. He'd known Combeferre would understand. He's accustomed to his mind-reading where Enjolras is concerned, however uncanny. “Keep telling me about me.”

“I did warn you, when we moved to the city.” Now Combeferre's tone is gentle. “You're the only one who refused any other path. The rest of us have day jobs.” Unsaid, but heard by both, is another underlying warning: despite their best-laid plans, les amis could never be a permanent institution. One day they would break up due the changing global landscape, or be brought down from the outside, or in. 

Combeferre doesn't say, _The rest of us have planned for the rest of our lives, for something other than this,_ but he doesn't have to. Instead he says, “It makes it easier, for the others. They have less to hide, to lie about, to be caught at. Joly doesn't need to make up a false front for Bossuet, because he can talk about his work at the lab, and the other friends he has, and the other things he does. We're important to Joly, but we're also secondary. He could leave us, if he wanted, whenever he wanted.” 

“I...” Enjolras swallows. “You're not wrong.”

“Yet the question remains. If you keep seeing Grantaire, and value what you are building, you want it built on honesty. And you feel you cannot trust him with knowledge of the Collective.”

Enjolras shifts in his chair. If he were wearing a tie he would tug at the neck to loosen it. His fingers twitch. “It's not that I don't trust him,” he says. “I don't know him well enough to know that. But even if I were assured, les amis are too big a secret to keep, too damaging, when you haven't chosen it.”

“And if Grantaire chooses you?” Combeferre's mouth quirks. “Granted, I have only met him the once. But I am not a poor observer of human interaction, and if you remain uncertain in your interest, I can say I do not believe he has the same doubts.”

Enjolras flinches. “That's the problem. One of them, anyway. A big one. He has no idea who I am.”

“I would give him some credit,” Combeferre says. “You are never subtle, Enjolras. If he has spent any time with you, he must guess that there is more to your life; otherwise it is too gleaming a surface, and people like Grantaire -- those who do not keep up an outward shield, but proudly display their wounds -- they are often the best at sensing what is constructed, and what is not. Most people are uninterested in the secret lives of others; they are too concerned with their own; but those who have been used too cruelly, or used themselves too cruelly, are most intrigued by truths. They are comforted in digging, in hearing it confirmed that no one is perfect, that even the glossiest person is complicated underneath. He will be glad to hear who you are, I think.” He pauses a moment, then says, “Perhaps it is not worth debating. If you do not plan to pursue this further--”

“I didn't say that,” Enjolras interrupts, but slowly, and Combeferre's knowing smile is as slow. 

“I thought so,” he says. “If it were me, I would give it a while longer; you have only just started out. And once I was -- assured, that was your word -- once assured, I would tell him. Tell him who and what you are, and the good you've done.”

“I wish you would,” says Enjolras, trying to laugh it off. “You're much better at explaining. You'd do a great job.”

“Sorry, my friend,” says Combeferre. “This one'll be all yours to handle. But I can help with the PowerPoint presentation prep.”

“I love you,” says Enjolras. “Really, I do.”

“Ditto,” says Combeferre. 

Enjolras is still laughing. “You know, Grantaire thought we'd been together. He asked me about you.”

“As I said,” says Combeferre. “People like him are skilled at seeing truths where others would not. I did not say they are always correct in their assumptions.” He lifts his shoulders. “You find the idea hilarious.”

“Only the misreading,” says Enjolras. “But I allowed that we are somewhat like an old married couple. Bahorel says so often enough.”

“Indeed,” says Combeferre. “We know each other two well, and fight tooth and nail to stay balanced, and we can't remember the last time we had sex.”

Enjolras has stopped laughing, but is startled into it again. “God, we would be the _worst._ Can you imagine?”

Combeferre nods. “That's the thing, Enjolras. Sometimes it's better not to know everything about the person you're with. Some secrets are healthier to keep. You must look at the opportunity with Grantaire as a fresh start. It is a chance to rediscover who you are when you are not online, and I believe that you need that. I know that you do. Before we went to the bar show, when was the last time we all went out?”

“I don't know.” Enjolras tries to think about it. “Joly's birthday, maybe.” The other amis lead more active social lives, and have varied friend groups through their jobs and hobbies, but Enjolras, for the sake of safety, keeps his contacts limited these days, and is known for politely declining social invitations in favor of staying home to work and plot more work. 

“Two months ago,” agrees Combeferre. “And your last date, before Grantaire?”

“Fire Island?”

“That wasn't a date.” Combeferre crosses his arms and raises a sand-colored eyebrow. 

This time it takes longer. “Bahorel's friend from law school.” Cute guy, shame about the way he never spoke up, just sat there and smiled and offered his opinion on copyright law when addressed directly. It had been a pleasant enough dinner, but they'd left it with a handshake.

“That was a year ago,” says Combeferre. “And now?”

Enjolras hesitates. He's never kept anything from Combeferre, and Combeferre seems approving of it, so -- “I spent the last two nights with Grantaire.”

Combeferre's expression shows a little surprise, but he smiles to even it out. “You make that sound like an indulgence, when it's something to be celebrated. If you never let your guard down, you'll forget how. That's no way to live. This is a good thing, Enjolras. You needed something like Grantaire to happen.”

“I'm too distracted,” says Enjolras, voicing his biggest fear. “I've been off my game, let things pile up. I've been -- indulgent -- during the workday. I've been lenient with late reports. I didn't run yesterday's maintenance like I was supposed to. I think about him when I shouldn't.”

“You _like_ him,” says Combeferre, whose smile has held throughout, “Let yourself _like_ him. The other symptoms you list are the result of a state you have avoided: relaxation. Relaxing, for you, was becoming more rare than a date. You never gave yourself a break, and you expected the same constant diligence from the Collective. Lately you had been consumed with a particular fire. It was exhausting for everyone involved.” The smile quirks up, hopeful. “The good news is that things are changing, as you say. People have noticed the shift in your behavior, but for the better. Everyone's spirits are up because yours are, and you've loosened up on demands, and been _relaxed_.”

Enjolras considers this. “Was I really so bad?” Combeferre only raises his other eyebrow to the level of its fellow, saying nothing, not needing to. 

Enjolras considers how events had been set into motion in the first place, Courfeyrac's _what has been up your ass lately_ , the way he'd taken to snapping out orders and grown used to having them obeyed, the lengths, often dangerous, always difficult, to which he'd been pushing les amis. 

A week ago -- a century -- it feels as far removed: the act of meeting Grantaire and being forced to consider the world beyond his laptop has altered the shape of things to a greater extent than he has let himself admit. _You like him. Let yourself like him._

Combeferre stands, pushing back his chair. “Let's go to the roof,” he suggests. “Sunset's coming on.” He zips his sweatshirt and jams a newsboy cap down over his flyaway hair while Enjolras sits at the table collecting crumbs. 

Combeferre has his jacket in hand and tosses it over Enjolras' head, where he must cease brooding and catch it or else suffer his hair to be ruffled. Enjolras catches the jacket. Then Combeferre takes a cigar box from the bookshelf in the living room and retrieves a briarwood pipe and a pouch of tobacco, slipping the lot into his pocket.

“I thought you quit smoking that senior year,” says Enjolras, curious. 

“It can help me think clearly,” answers Combeferre, and Enjolras shrugs. He's always been rather partial to the rich, smoldering scent of pipe tobacco, and can recall too many nights across from Combeferre on a porch, or outside of the library, or on the roof of some building on-campus, puzzling out problems, Combeferre with the pipe's stem set between his teeth and white smoke curling skyward. 

After they'd mastered lock-picking because they could they'd decided to climb to the top of every building at the University, to see if they could. They could; the little locks were a farce with the right pick in hand. The security guards never caught them. They liked the high, broad roof of the science complex best, where there was an observatory, and the bemused astronomy majors sometimes let them in to see the stars.

Now as they take the stairs two at a time there's no threat of campus security, and Combeferre pushes the door open without having to pick the lock. The sun is only starting to go down across the city, shading the river and the tall buildings of lower Manhattan a dusky orange. The air is brisk and full and feels fresh in Enjolras' lungs. They sit at a round patio table with a closed umbrella, pulling rusty chairs together against the wind. They look out from a great height the way they used to. 

Combeferre shakes out the ash from his pipe, packs down a fresh bowl and sets the tobacco alight. He takes a few quick puffs to spark it and then a longer draw, savoring the smoke. He closes his eyes, then opens them. He speaks softly. His words are swallowed by the breeze. “Can I be frank with you?”

Enjolras tries not to sound affronted at the suggestion that they are ever any less. “And before you were being Frank,” he teases, “who were you being?”

“I'm serious.” Combeferre is never not, even while smiling. He is only smiling a little bit now. “We swore we would never lie to each other, but, as you are discovering with Grantaire, not telling the truth can feel as wrong as lying. Omission is half a sin.” He pulls on the pipe again. “Like you, I'm tired of keeping secrets.”

“You never have to,” says Enjolras. “There's nothing you could say that I would take you to task for. Nothing on Earth or Mars, unless you want to leave the Collective.”

“Nothing like that,” says Combeferre. “That is never on my mind, though its maintenance always is. What I said before I stand by. I had come to believe that you, and the Collective, were reaching a crisis point. Events could not progress at the same rate, in my estimate, before either you collapsed from the strain of too much work and too little sleep, or we reached levels of internal mutiny that would prove untenable. Our volunteers were starting to feel like conscripts, and you, an unhappy slave-driver.”

“I get it,” says Enjolras, uncomfortable with the topic as he'd been downstairs. “I do, I really do now, okay? I had my nose to the grindstone and my head too far up my own ass.” He hadn't realized, not fully, how much his own moods and behavior had rippled across les amis, but it's a critical lesson. He'd been presenting a cool, rigid front as a faceless freedom fighter, but apparently his people prefer the hot-blooded revolutionary, the human side. They don't want to gripe about how Enjolras has them running too many security drills, they want to gossip about how their storied leader has a date who plays bass. 

Enjolras sets his mouth, trying very hard not to sound petulant. “You might've said something, you know. I _can_ take direction. Occasionally.”

Combeferre exhales a cloud of smoke. He grins at that, but lets the expression fade. “I believe I made many suggestions on the subject of taking a break. You have canceled acupuncture appointments; have canceled tickets to paid vacations; canceled even trips for business you were afraid might bring you too close to pleasure. You stopped bowling with us, Enjolras, saying Wednesday nights were a critical newsday. You stopped _bowling_.”

“Okay, okay,” says Enjolras. “So I was hopeless.”

“I never think so,” says Combeferre, “But it was true that something had to give. You wouldn't listen to reason, and you wouldn't move to act on your own, and I could see no end. That's why I -- that's why I did it.”

An ache is gathering low in Enjolras' belly, like a clenched fist tightening. He doesn't understand. He says so. “I don't understand.” 

“I knew you would take the profile down within minutes of discovery,” says Combeferre, “but I knew you would receive a strong response, and I trusted in your innate curiosity.” He does not look at Enjolras; he watches the waterfront, Brooklyn-side. 

Enjolras says, “You, Combeferre?” 

He blinks at Combeferre. Combeferre stares out, towards water.

“Me. It was easy to set up, the work of a few minutes. I could write your preferences in my sleep. You'll agree that it was a passable effort.” He sighs, and smokes, and speaks. “I'm sorry for the anger that you must have felt at first. I intended to tell you, after, but you blamed Courfeyrac, and he was delighted to take the fall, and the glory. And it proved successful. You met Grantaire.” He shakes his head. “He was not among the outcomes I had charted. He is not what normally catches your eye. But maybe Grantaire took the best approach of all, in ignoring the compatibility maps and graphs, and finding you. I'm not sorry for that.”

Enjolras knows that he's frowning; he swallows, trying to shift his mouth. It takes a while to know what to say. Then he says, “Lately I've been praising Courfeyrac for what happened. I guess I should be thanking you. I'm not denying the things you've said are true, or that I needed some kind of intervention.” But he's feeling doused with cold water. It's hard not to let the sharp stab of hurt affect his tone. It's a multi-part hurt, the knowledge of how badly he'd been fucking up, mingled with his astonishment at Combeferre's clandestine mission. “You really thought I'd never meet someone on my own?”

“I knew you wouldn't,” says Combeferre, unsparing. “I saw your hesitancy at college, and you became a shut-in when we moved to the city. We've gone over that.”

“Yes.” Enjolras turns to watch the sunset, the sun slowly starting to sink in the bowl of the sky. For the first time, he feels the weight of words unsaid between them. He decides that he hates it. “It was important that I find someone to be with,” he says, unraveling it, like one of their old puzzles. 

“As I explained,” says Combeferre. “For your own good, and the good of les amis.” Smoke rises from his pursed lips, his face in profile. “The greater good outweighs the lesser, you always say.”

“It was important to you,” says Enjolras. 

“Yes.” The skyline is aglow in red and pink and gold, and the wind has picked up, threatening Combeferre's hat and making a mess of Enjolras' hair. Combeferre says, “It was also a selfish act. Perhaps that is why I hesitated to tell you about it, and let Courfeyrac take the blame. Only after a while, that made it still more selfish, and secret, and I have looked for a chance to tell you.”

“Tell me,” says Enjolras. They aren't talking about the incident with the website anymore. The hurt in his stomach has receded because his stomach has flipped over.

Combeferre draws in a breath, this time smokeless. “I never wanted to say it.”

“There are no secrets between us,” says Enjolras. 

“There is this one,” says Combeferre. “It has been mine to keep since the day I met you.” He turns to face Enjolras, meeting his eyes. “I have loved you for a very long time,” says Combeferre, “and done so the way that I decided was best. Early on, I ran the calculations, and saw what poor long-term lovers we would make. _The worst_ , as you said. Instead I determined how I might share my life with you more productively. To be your support, to be your second, was, I believe, the part I was born to play. I temper you, and you give me the courage to advance, to risk, where I would not, without you.”

“You--”

“We are a formidable pair, but that must be the extent of our pairing. We are too alike, and vastly different. In friends this provides balance; in love-matches it is catastrophic. I crunched all the possible numbers. So I came to love you as I would: at your side, and from afar, and certain that way of remaining. I never thought that I would tell you, as such, but I am not ashamed of it.”

“Combeferre--” Enjolras' stomach is now in freefall, and his heart is drumming hard against his ribcage. He can't remember ever feeling so unmoored. He doesn't know what to grasp onto. On instinct he reaches for Combeferre's free hand, and holds it. He doesn't have to voice his question.

“Why didn't I tell you? That served no purpose that I could see, when we were young.” Gazing from the lofty height of twenty-three, he sounds wiser, wary. “You might've decided to try me, out of friendship or boredom or pity, and either way we would have been estranged, and might not have built what we have. I couldn't risk it, then.”

“And now?”

“You needed to be with someone else,” says Combeferre, “and I needed you to be. That was what propelled me to action, at last, and why I call it selfish. I love you, Enjolras, with all that I am. But I am ready to see what else there is. The last half-decade of my life has been yours. Now I would also discover who I can be beyond the things we do. I'm forgetting who I am.”

Enjolras takes Combeferre's hand between both of his own. “I never wanted this for you,” he says. “If I'd known, I'd--”

But he hadn't known. Enjolras is coming to realize just how much his tunnel vision has kept him from. So easy to look around and only see optimal conditions, the sights he wants to see. So easy to ignore what drove others in the ferocity of his own drive. To be ignorant of his best friend's mind--

Combeferre breaks in, gently. “I don't want anything to change between us, and I'd prefer if we didn't speak of this after tonight. I'm telling you, tonight, out of selfishness. If you won't let yourself be distracted for your own benefit, or for Grantaire's, maybe you will for mine. It's unfair of me, I know,” he says. “but I must have you occupied. Otherwise, I won't...” His voice trails, hesitates.

“You won't leave my side,” says Enjolras, remembering Combeferre waiting calmly at the bar after the others had gone to higher ground and he'd had Grantaire hitched up in the bathroom. He looks at Combeferre's hand in his own. “You won't let go.”

“No,” Combeferre agrees. “I can't. I need you to do it for me.”

Before he does so, Enjolras brings them together. He pushes back Combeferre's cap. Their foreheads touch. Enjolras says, “I love and value you more than anything else I have. I'll do as you ask. I'll try.”

“Thank you,” whispers Combeferre. “Ditto.”

Enjolras kisses his cheek. He presses his lips against warm skin, along the rise of bone. Where they touch there is so much warmth but no heat. Combeferre closes his eyes. The sun slides down behind the skyscrapers. Then Enjolras lets go.

 

* * *

 

He takes the subway home but mostly doesn't remember it. He should've taken a cab; he overshoots by five stations, sitting slumped in thought. A kid selling candies from a cardboard box asks Enjolras if he'd like fruitsnacks or cookies and jostles him back to reality. He buys a handful and gets off at the next stop. He walks back.

He's more shaken now than he'd been on the roof. Nothing and everything has changed in the course of an afternoon. He's the same, he's a different person. His best friend is in love with him but thought that was a bad idea, so it would be better if they loved other people, or at least fucked around. 

His best friend had hacked his life and helped get him set up with a tousle-haired blue-eyed artist who has changed everything in the course of days. Combeferre had felt it crucial that Grantaire should happen, that Enjolras needed a Grantaire. 

Grantaire, cradling Enjolras in his arms and thighs the night they met, Grantaire electric on stage, given over to music; Grantaire, on his hands and knees, bare skin to skin; Grantaire tied to his bed and desperate; Grantaire close in bed at night, making the prospect of sleep appealing. 

When he gets home Enjolras sits for a long time in the living room armchair, not bothering to turn on any lights. He thinks about the day. He thinks about the roof, and Combeferre, and what he'd promised to try. He thinks about Grantaire. Then he calls. He's never called, only texted.

It takes three rings. “Hi!” Grantaire sounds breathless, but cheerful. Enjolras can hear the clink of glasses and a huge roar of laughter behind him. “Sorry, I was in the middle of a Guinness double-pour. What's up?”

Enjolras thinks about how much is up. Then he says, “Nothing. Just wanted to say hey.” He's bad at this. He's so bad. He wasn't made for this kind of thing, he thinks. But he promised. And as he says it, he realizes that it's true: “I wanted to hear your voice.”

“Ep, I'm taking five--” Grantaire is talking over loud noise that abruptly goes quiet, like he's ducked out of bullfight and into a library. “Is that better? I'm trying to showcase my voice in a sexier light. I'm flattered, really. I feel as though I should sing something. Do you like showtunes?”

“I might be persuaded,” says Enjolras. “I heard you, in the shower. You were good.”

“Oh, god, sorry, I thought I was being quiet--”

“Come back,” says Enjolras. “Come back again tonight, after your shift.”

The barest of pauses. Combeferre saying, _I do not believe he has the same doubts._ “Listen,” says Grantaire, “I'd really love to. But you should've seen your face this morning, when you answered the door. It was wretched. Painful. Like, Walking Dead-level bad. I can't do that to you again.”

Enjolras is about to protest. Then he thinks about it. Tries not to be who he's always been, guard up and over-cautious. He says, “How about before I go to bed, I leave the spare key under the big flowerpot outside? It'll be fine there a few hours. No one in Brooklyn expects such a country move. Then you can come in whenever you get here.”

“Nice,” says Grantaire. “Sure, that works, if you're sure--”

“I'm sure,” says Enjolras. For the first time, he is. “Don't wake me up unless you're naked.”

Grantaire's burst of laughter sounds delighted. “Don't sleep with any clothes on.”

“It's a deal.”

“Enjolras?” Noise is washing back over from Grantaire's side of the line. “I'm really glad you called. I wanted to text you all day, but I didn't want to bother you at your meeting.”

“It wouldn't have been any bother,” says Enjolras. “I wish you had. I'll see you later?”

“In the flesh,” swears Grantaire. They hang up with the promise of it between them.

Much later, Enjolras gets ready for bed. He brushes his teeth and washes his face and combs back his hair. He strips off the clothes that have been the uniform for the strangest day of his life, grateful to close the hamper over them. He slips into bed naked, and lies down on his side. He means to sleep, but sleep won't come. 

He stares into the dark and processes, like a computer, and waits for Grantaire to let himself in.


End file.
